arned to make a
cup of coffee since I was here in the spring. I think we will try it
now." The coffee was brought, and the Prebendary shook his head,--the
least shake in the world,--and smiled blandly.

"Coffee is the very devil in the country," said Harry Gilmore, who
did not dare to say that the mixture was good in opposition to his
uncle's opinion.

After the coffee, which was served in the library, the two men sat
silent together for half an hour, and Gilmore was endeavouring to
think what it was that made his uncle come to Bullhampton. At last,
before he had arrived at any decision on this subject, there came
first a little nod, then a start and a sweet smile, then another nod
and a start without the smile, and, after that, a soft murmuring of a
musical snore, which gradually increased in deepness till it became
evident that the Prebendary was extremely happy. Then it occurred to
Gilmore that perhaps Mr. Chamberlaine might become tired of going to
sleep in his own house, and that he had come to the Privets, as he
could not do so with comfortable self-satisfaction in the houses
of indifferent friends. For the benefit of such a change it might
perhaps be worth the great man's while to undergo the penalty of a
bad cup of coffee.

And could not he, too, go to sleep,--he, Gilmore? Could he not fall
asleep,--not only for a few moments on such an occasion as this,--but
altogether, after the Akinetos fashion, as explained by his friend
Fenwick? Could he not become an immoveable one, as was this divine
uncle of his? No Mary Lowther had ever disturbed that man's
happiness. A good dinner, a pretty ring, an easy chair, a china
tea-cup, might all be procured with certainty, as long as money
lasted. Here was a man before him superbly comfortable, absolutely
happy, with no greater suffering than what might come to him from a
chance cup of bad coffee, while he, Harry Gilmore himself, was as
miserable a devil as might be found between the four seas, because a
certain young woman wouldn't come to him and take half of all that he
owned! If there were any curative philosophy to be found, why could
not he find it? The world might say that the philosophy was a low
philosophy; but what did that matter, if it would take away out
of his breast that horrid load which was more than he could bear?
He declared to himself that he would sell his heart with all its
privileges for half-a-farthing, if he could find anybody to take it
with all